


recipe for disaster

by courante



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Attempt at Humor, Cameos by other Buzzfeed employees, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courante/pseuds/courante
Summary: Shane moves to a quiet suburb of Los Angeles to pursue his dreams. There's a nice bakery a few blocks away, which is a plus. The fact that the bakery is a front for nefarious activities is, well, not.Or is it?





	recipe for disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiffElderberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiffElderberry/gifts).



> I'm not quite sure what to say here except [this screenshot](https://the-hills-have-ass.tumblr.com/post/169487630897) 100% inspired this entire story. I hope you enjoy!

I.

The first time the guy comes in, Ryan isn't at the register. There had been...an urgent issue, and he'd left momentarily to take care of it out back (fucking Steven always texting him last-minute about jobs) when he'd heard the tinny ring of the bell. Just a normal day, except Jen had called in sick earlier and nobody else is in town and everything seems like it's going to hell in front of him.  
  
"Be right there!" he yells as he heaves the body bag into the employee restroom, curses as it slumps against his foot, and kicks it in a bit further. Holy _shit_ is this annoying.

When he finally emerges into the front, all smiles and a clean, non-bloodied smock, there’s this guy he’s never seen before loitering around behind the glass display and—fuck, he’s _tall_.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Ryan says, indicating towards the back with an apologetic smile. “Was um, taking inventory.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the guy replies, looming over him with an unassuming, easygoing smile. He pushes a tray with a brioche bun towards Ryan, gaze never straying from Ryan’s own. “Just this, thanks.”

 

II.

The second time the guy comes in, he’s with someone else. A friend, girlfriend maybe. Jen’s manning the register this time; their friendly chatter drifts into the back where Kelsey’s busy decorating the cookies with little squiggles of icing and where Ryan’s trying very, very hard not to eavesdrop while slicing apples.

He isn’t very successful.

“Oi, pass the sugar,” Kelsey interrupts, poking him with her spatula. “You’re _so_ out of it today. What’s up?”

“The big guy,” he replies, passing the container along, then indicates towards the half-open door. The girls are chatting pleasantly, but the guy—Shane, he’d introduced himself as— is moving around in the background, checking out the windows and seats and people sitting around. “He’s kinda suspicious.”

“You think he’s a cop?”

Ryan watches Shane pick up a cinnamon shaker, turning it around. The porcelain bottle looks tiny in his large hands. _Very_ suspicious. “Possibly.”

“That sucks,” Kelsey sighs, going back to her cookies. “He’s kinda cute— oh, is _that_ why, Ryan?”

“What? No. I’m not gonna go hit on a cop.”

Kelsey hums agreeably even as she says, “That’s what you said about the last one. What was his name again? Brandon?”

The glint in her eye spells oncoming disaster; Ryan frowns deeply, dropping the apple slices harder than he intended into the bowl. “Whatever. Took care of that one already.”

 

III.

The third time, Ryan’s all but certain Shane’s some kind of undercover cop, the Feds, or something worse. Maybe an alien (what kind of normal human being would be eighty percent limb? It makes no scientific sense.)

People come and go rather quickly in this neighborhood, but everyone in the bakery’s got eyes on all their regulars. Like the couple who comes in every Wednesday for a tin of sugar cookies and black coffee and Jen’s elderly next-door neighbor who never leaves the place without her cranberry bun and matcha. Maybe one of them sees, hears something happening in the back room from time to time; most of them know better than to utter a peep. This is a friendly neighborhood establishment existing to serve the community, after all.

The people who do speak up, well.

Ryan’s not usually the one to deal with them (that’s Andrew’s job) The thing with Brent had been an anomaly— he’d gotten a little twisted up in the heat of the moment, gotten a little ahead of himself. But it had been nothing he couldn’t fix, and Brent had just been a passing customer who’d happened to be working for the wrong side. Hadn’t even been specifically poking his nose around their turf. That’s all in the past now.

Shane, though. There’s something uncanny about the way he so naturally slides in through the doors, all six-foot-whatever of him, how he’s already nodding greetings to other customers like he’s been here all his life. Nobody working here knows where he lives; he seems to be able to shake off anyone who tries to tail him. Slippery, and suspicious.

“Hey there.” Ryan initiates conversation this time, hoping to catch him off guard. “Not working today either, huh?”

It’s mid-afternoon on a Thursday. Shane looks like, thirty two or something at most: too old to be in school, too clean-shaven and well-dressed to be a drifter. Unless his job is wandering around the neighborhood bakeries and sampling crumbs from the little boxes everyone has out...it’s _strange_ , is all Ryan thinks.

Jen would say he’s being ridiculous, that people in LA can be _freaky_ and there’s really no reason in _so_ scrupulously micromanaging who gets to come here when they haven’t really been doing that for...well, anyone else. That Ryan’s got an obsession, even (he could already hear Curly and Steven snickering in the back of his mind. Dumbasses. They won’t be laughing when shit goes down.)

It’s not an obsession. It’s a _precaution_. He likes to be prepared for anything and everything.

Which is why he’s got both a normal gun (okay, Kelsey’s gun) and a holy water gun (because Shane being a demon wouldn’t be too far off the mark anyway, in his mind) underneath the counter waiting as Shane takes notice of him and saunters over, his expression brightening up noticeably. _Okay, that’s weird_ , Ryan thinks, but he’s not as incensed as he thought he’d be.

“I’m a writer,” Shane says, leaning against the counter. It feels like a half-assed excuse, but he sounds sincere enough that Ryan stops inching towards his tools. “I mean, everyone in Tinseltown will say that, but you know.”

“Sure,” Ryan replies carefully, looking up at him. Business is slow today, and there’s not much harm in humoring the guy if that’ll get him usable information in return. Though he might just have to take Shane out immediately if he pulls up a laptop with a fifty-page original screenplay. “So, whatcha writing?”

Shane picks up a tin of organic black tea from the pile next to the counter, but without any real interest in the object. “Well, you look like you might murder me if I say screenplays, so. Short fiction, let’s leave it at that, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” His accent is distinctly Not From SoCal, which means this is another case of Big City Dreaming rolling into town with the same old lofty aspirations towards Hollywood. Then again those had been Ryan’s dreams too, at least before he fell to the wayside and became the lone Angeleno in a gang that's ninety percent Midwestern transplants. So really, he’s got no room to talk. “What about?”

He’s about to regret asking that question (it never goes anywhere good) when Shane’s eyebrow raise and subsequent answer takes him by surprise. “You really wanna know?”

“I mean, shoot. Can’t be worse than the guy who came in here ranting about furry porn.”

Shane grins at that; great, maybe that makes both of them awkward weirdos. He also leans into the counter, which is both terrifying and—well, mostly terrifying. “You wanna hear about the murder mystery or the ghost story?”

“You believe in ghosts?” Ryan cuts in, excitedly. Shane looks at him blankly for a good two seconds, which is two seconds more than Ryan can take the absolute confusion coming from those warm brown eyes (god, _why_ does he always have to run his mouth like that) before everything falls into place. Shane laughs incredulously, his eyes crinkling up as he leans back.

“Ghosts? Of course not. That’s why it’s fiction, dude. They’re not real.”

Ryan gapes. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

 

IV.

Okay, so Shane doesn’t believe in ghosts, which is unfortunately not a good enough reason to make him disappear. Neither is the horrendous realization Ryan has that he’s starting to find Shane sort of cute, because figuratively pulling pigtails via .38 isn’t the kind of thing you should do as an adult, even when you’re working in a bakery fronting for a murder-for-hire ring.

Shane keeps coming back. Sometimes to buy breakfast for the next few days like a normal person, sometimes to relay plot points of his latest story (something about sentient hot dogs that Ryan’s tuned out for during the last four or five visits.) Ryan’s almost starting to think he’s just lonely and too far from Chicago and wanting someone to listen to his inane ramblings—not that he minds all that much. Shane’s got the kind of voice he could easily fall asleep to, and as ridiculous as the ideas that come out of his mouth sometimes are he’s really not that bad to converse with otherwise.

At least Shane doesn’t have any bad sports opinions. He has none, actually, which is a trait Ryan finds at once fascinating and extremely baffling for a thirtysomething white American male. What does he even _do_ in his spare time?

(Ryan texts Zack; Zack sends him five eggplant emojis followed by a wink, followed by _you know it’s true love if he won’t even talk Lakers with you & you’re still into him. _ Ryan blocks his number for the fifth time that week.)

He’s not into Shane like _that_. Shane’s fucking weird, and chill, and tall, and sure he’s cute, but so are millions of other people in this city. Ryan has Shane’s number, yeah, but only because Shane had accidentally left his phone in their outside restroom two weeks ago. He starts looking forward to the days Shane would come in, on Thursdays and whatever other time he makes (he’s talked about some acting gigs on the side; it’s a good use of his face.) It doesn’t matter that they’re both into horror and aliens (despite the terrible takes Shane has on their existence; for that, he’s on thin ice), and consuming way too much popcorn than is ever necessary for people their age. Way, way too much. Maybe like they got caught by Kelsey using the bakery TV and microwave to watch Final Destination after work had ended much.

“It’s not like that, huh,” she’d said, winking before confiscating the remote and the rest of the popcorn and kicking both of them out.

In Ryan’s defense, Shane had just _happened_ to come in near closing hours. It’s nothing more than what he’d do if any other regular customer who doesn't steal pastries off their shelves politely asked to watch something.

(Okay, maybe he wouldn’t.)

It’s not like _that_ , even when Shane’s hand brushes against his as Ryan’s ringing up his purchases and he feels his heart flip a little inside; even when he sees clearly there’s a bit of pink on the tips of Shane’s ears when Ryan leans forward over the counter to be all up in his face during some of their arguments over which Mission Impossible installment is the best. Even when he’s starting to catch on to the gossip coming from inside the house, when Jen gives him one of her Looks every now and then during meetings and Curly slaps him on the back and winks. Even when he starts to look forward to Shane’s texts at night, for links that end up at those strange websites he uses for writing inspiration ( _is this too morbid?_ Shane would follow up with; _nah, it’s interesting_ , Ryan would think sleepily, saving them for work purposes later) or one last round of banter before dozing off.

It’s not like that.

 

V.

Which is how Ryan ends up missing all the warning signs in between debating Shane over the merits of raisin cookies and the gradually emptying tables and the muffled sounds coming from the back, something like a door opening and closing. Then there’s a man pushing open the glass door and making a beeline towards the counter without so much as looking at the pastries; Shane half-turns, curious, and Ryan finally notices the badge being held out towards them both.

Fuck.

“Uh,” he says, shifting in position. “What’s up?”

There’s another officer standing outside the door. Shane who keeps a carefully neutral expression as the one next to him explains that they’re looking for someone who’s been seen hanging around here, Asian male in his twenties, six-foot, clean-shaven, black hair. Wanted as a witness, he mentions, but he doesn’t say for what. Doesn’t even show a warrant. Ryan can’t help it, but he could absolutely feel the professional smile on his face slowly wilt.

“Ryan’s like, five-three at most,” Shane interjects; Ryan shoots him a practiced look of annoyance that he absolutely ignores. He’s contemplating between calling for Jen and running for it when Shane opens his mouth again, and the officer’s got his full attention on him now. “Hey, actually, I think I’ve seen someone like that around before. Day before yesterday, maybe.”

The officer nods. “Can you show me?”

“Yeah, sure. He was kinda hanging out that way on Tuesday…”

Ryan watches Shane gesture animatedly as they walk out the door, towards someone and somewhere he’s certain doesn’t exist, simply because Shane had been running three shows that Tuesday and couldn’t have had time to swing by the bakery.

He does, however, turn back and wink at Ryan before disappearing behind the corner with the cop.

 _Huh_.

The door opens behind him; Jen pops her head out, alert. “Hey, what was that?”

“Is Evan back there?”

“Not today, wh— oh.” She frowns, watching the other cop turn around, glance at them, then walk back out towards the street. “Hey, make sure your guy’s alright after work, okay?”

She says it jokingly, but the tilt of her head says otherwise. Ryan pushes aside the banana bread that Shane had picked out earlier, nodding vaguely towards her direction. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

Three hours later, after he’s closed up shop, Ryan gets a text: _Don’t know what’s up with that, but they probably won’t be coming back._

 _Maybe warn a guy next time you’re gonna fuck around_ , He pauses, staring at the tiny screen. Kelsey had run several searches online earlier in the month and found nothing, but considering the circumstances—how much, really, is _too much_ for an outsider? _But thanks. Really appreciate it._

 _No problem._ Then, three minutes later (too long of a time, Ryan thinks, for it to have been a spontaneous afterthought), complete with a winking emoji: _Not gonna tell me what that was about, huh?_

 _Nope. ;)_ And then, driven by some kind of need to prove himself— or the demons, it must be the demons— he texts, _Maybe I’ll let you find out if you come over for movie night tomorrow. Bring popcorn._

It’s embarrassing, like he’s back in high school and his brain is purely fueled by hormones and adrenaline again; Ryan regrets sending it almost as soon as he lifts his finger off the screen. But this time Shane’s response is prompt: _As long as you’re not gonna go Hannibal on me, deal._

If he’s breathing some kind of relief after that, if he’s feeling something warm and tight and strange in his chest, Ryan doesn’t let himself dwell on it for too long.

 

VI.

“Huh,” Shane says, looking slowly up and down at the blood-splattered tiles of the bathroom. “So, um. Murder. You do murder.”

“ _Dios mío_ ,” Curly mutters under his breath, gaze moving towards the knives in the sink. Then: “You gonna stab your boytoy too, Bergara?”

Ryan shakes his head as Shane looks on in what seems like polite confusion at their exchange. The good part is he apparently doesn’t understand Spanish; the bad part is, well. There’s kind of a body on the floor between him and Curly and he’s covered with flour and bits of whatever used to be this guy’s insides. Hey, shit happens.

Shane closes the door behind him gently. For someone who’s just been made a new witness to a gruesome murder and/or potential next body found floating in Santa Monica Bay, he seems awfully blase about the whole situation. That, or all his acting classes have paid off spectacularly. “Well, Christ. There’s nobody up front, if you were worried about that. Was just wondering where you were, since…"

“So you just, like, happened to wander back here.”

“For the record,” Shane replies. “I’m really not here to investigate anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. Seems suspicious, I know.”

“Uh-huh.” Then, indicating towards the mess on the ground, “For the record on _my_ part, this guy’s a serial cheater and general asshole.”

There goes that patented Madej eyebrow raise. Shane sighs, dropping his shoulders. “As long as that’s not gonna be me in a few minutes, I really don’t care what you’ve been doing, Ry.”

“If you say so,” Ryan says, not actually sure if he just heard correctly. He counts to ten, exhales, and looks up at Shane. Curly shifts uncomfortably beside him, away from the body, towards the cleaning supplies. “Hey, big guy, you know the date we set up, earlier?”

“Yeah.” Shane’s looking directly at him now. He’s holding a sandwich he’s probably just nicked from the fridge, which he bites into, slowly. Even just standing there he seems to radiate a kind of weird serenity, blood and guts aside. “Is it still on?”

Ryan thinks about it, for a second, scanning Shane’s face for any signs of deception. There’s none of the kind of very horrified (very human) reaction he’d seen on Brent’s face when _that_ had gone down. If anything, Shane just runs his free hand through his hair, looking mildly concerned about getting his shoes stained. There’s a sort of smile tugging at his lips, almost like he already knows how this is going to play out, but without the sort of poise he’s seen time and time again coming from the law. And he’s still eating the fucking sandwich.

Ryan’s starting to realize maybe, just maybe, Shane really doesn’t give a shit. And acting or not, it’s…kind of hot.

And really, what’s one more bad decision in a sea of already terrible ideas? As Curly would put it, he’s already been thinking exclusively with his dick for the past three months.

So he says, casually as can be in a situation like this, “How about an interview instead?”

 

VII.

“Oh, Ry, I really don’t like this part.”

Ryan snorts, pushing the bucket towards him carefully as to not spill the water. “You’re a freelance creative working in a LA bakery. Do you _really_ think you have a say in what you want to do?”

“I’m sure living the California dream, baby!” Shane replies cheerfully, waving a bloody rag towards the camera. “Am I overselling it? The whole making newbies clean up the nasty stuff and being too enthusiastic shebang.”

“Except you seem like, weirdly okay with this.” Through the lens Ryan could see Shane shake his head, his gaze lingering on the periphery of the screen where Ryan’s shoulders are exposed from his rolled-up sleeves. “It’s not normal.”

“Like any of you know about normal.” It’s only a moment, but something shifts in Shane’s expression before he turns back to the stains on the floor again. “I don’t think anyone normal would move halfway across the country to live in LA, Ryan. This city does terrible things to a man.”

“Sure does.” Ryan could see Shane’s eyes crinkle up a little again as he hops off the counter, smirking and wholly unable to keep the fondness from creeping into his voice as he maneuvers his way through the mess (will they _ever_ have a restroom that could be clean for more than two days at a time?) “And yet you’re here.”

For once, standing here as Shane squats on the ground with his watered-down Pine-Sol and rags, Ryan could actually see the top of his head, the mess of brown hair he could be pulling on soon. Shane grins up at him, dirty smock and specks of dried crimson on his cheeks and all, and allows Ryan to tilt his chin up for an on-camera kiss.

“Yet I’m here.”


End file.
